They say your home is your castle. Well not yours, V, obviously. Yours is a cheap shitbox in a tower full of cheap shitboxes, but at the end of the day it's still yours. Letting someone into your inner sanctum shows trust, so you'd damn well make sure those you let in are worth the effort. Making friends isn't easy, but burying those friends after they try to plant one between your shoulderblades comes easy as breathing.
So you choose to let a jumped-up Nomad with a rebellious streak and a quite literal "my way or the highway" attitude just dance right in, no questions asked? At least if you were gonna fuck her, your astounding level of goody-two-shoes ignorance would make some kind of sense. But what do I know? I'm just the undead asshole in your head.
Panam despises being this deep in the belly of the beast. Sure, she's spent the better part of the last year dipping her toe into the deep end of Night City, prowling the streets in search of a new life and new purpose beyond Saul and his fading legend. But idealism aside, she's still a Nomad. Her heart is most at ease beneath empty skies where the loudest sounds are the cackling coyotes and the snores of whoever happens to be in the tent next to hers.
These congested streets packed to bursting with chromed-up flesh only suffocate her. She can't even see the stars until she drives out to the city outskirts. Even then it's only weak glimmerings that fight through clouds of acrid smog. At night all she can see in the sky are the garish All Foods adverts battling with Militech holo-boards and snippets of a too-chipper news anchor.
There isn't much that can tempt her this deep into the city, to the foot of a Megabuilding of all things. Nothing in the world would make her happier right now than curling up in the backseat of her rig, downing a few painkillers, and letting the throbbing of the fresh bullet wound in her side fade for a few hours. Her business with the merc is done. They downed the AV and klepped the corpo, as agreed. And now like a hundred times before, she and her contact were going to go their separate ways.
Well, that isn't entirely true. If it was, Panam wouldn't be here in the first place. She tells herself it's more for show, an assurance of water under the metaphorical bridge, but it's still the right thing to do. She knows V blamed herself for the collateral damage of the mission: an Aldecaldo patrol annihilated, Scorpion killed in action, and Panam herself left with a nasty wound above her left hip. She also knows it's all part of the job; life in the orbit of Night City has always been dangerous. The Aldecaldos know it, Scorpion had known it, and Panam understands it more each day.
But there was an earnestness to V's request to settle up that Panam both admires and questions. She knows better than to place trust in those outside her clan, and especially not in an inner-city Solo. But…
"Shit." She grumbles in defeat and hits the intercom button. The datascreen in front of her flickers with static that clusters around the cracks in the glass. Then the now-familiar calling card appears: cybernetic line-wires slither across the screen to melt into the letter V, centered below the holoform outline of a woman in a high collared jacket. It reeks of melodramatic over-promotion like everything else in this putrid labyrinth. Still, there's an artistic flair to it that Panam can appreciate. She wonders if the woman designed the image herself. Panam, never having had time or any particular interest in the arts, had simply snapped a pic of the emblem on the back of her then-favorite jacket.
Any further ruminations cut short when a harsh buzz assaults Panam's ears and the merc in question appears on the screen.
"Jesus, V," Panam blurts out. "What happened to you?"
"Nice to see you too, Panam." The merc smiles through a busted lip and an eye so black it's almost swelled shut. A badly-stitched gash runs over one eyebrow. "Just making some new friends."
"You look like you got hit by a car."
"Taxi, actually."
"What?"
"Long story." V glances at something off-screen and it looks like she's throwing someone a rude hand gesture. "Come on up. I'm gonna hop a quick shower, wash off the blood, but I'll be ready for you by the time you get up here."
"You got the parts?"
A nod. "Said I would, didn't I? Plus a little something extra."
Panam narrows her eyes at that, about to ask more, but the stream cuts out and the dataterm powers down with an exhausted rattle. She can't wait long before a teched-out woman with a permanent scowl etched into her chromed face ushers her out the way to boot up a call of her own.
Panam can't fathom how V can stand to live in a place like this, let alone enjoy it. She cranes her neck back and stares up at the Megabuilding, unable to make out the top from her vantage point at its base. So many people, clustered so tight in together, all subjected to the same wailing advertisements, the same earthquake-rumbling tram systems, the same wailing police sirens... it's enough to drive a person crazy.
Then again, she thinks as she ascends into the building interior, sane isn't exactly the first word I'd use to describe V.
She does her best to tune out the clamor of the city-goers clustered around her. Their white-noise conversations overpower even the broadcasts from the slab-like box towers above their heads. The interior of the building is every bit as chaotic as the outside, packed to bursting with shouting vendors and residents who shout right back. The entire place is drenched in spray paint and the stench of old sweat atop older garbage.
She somehow shuffles her way through the tangle and squeezes into a mag-lift heading up. No stated destination, just up. It's a tight fit between an elderly woman with unsettling orange cybernetic implants and a huge shirtless man with prison tattoos all down his arms and vomit stains across his chest. It's the longest elevator ride of her life, but each passenger disembarks on their given floor and refuses to give the others so much as a second look. The only noise is the rattling of the lift cage, the blaring of the vid-screens on the wall, and the ever-present clamor of the building beyond. Even that is staggering to Panam's ears.
It's such a strange departure from Nomad life, where every face is familiar enough to be family. Here, no one knows each other. More disturbing? No one cares.
She steps off on V's level and picks her way past a local gun range and exercise yard, pausing to watch a muscular man trade jabs and cross-cuts with a padded robotic combatant. It isn't long before she feels the tickle of unseen eyes on her. She moves on.
She hasn't forgotten that she's an oh-so-obvious alien in this mazeland of urban filth. Hell, the city won't let her forget. Everywhere she goes, she feels confused or condemned in equal measure. It's as if everyone from the lowliest streetcorner beggar to the most distant and manipulative corpo ice-queen came together and agreed she is not welcome. And they are all happy to let her know it; just the other day, the words GO HOME, DIRT-SUCKER had been spray-painted across her Thorton's back window.
It's an ancient slur, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Hate like that is exactly why the original Nomads fled the megacities so long ago to seek a better life on the open road. But in this world, no one forgives or forgets slights like that. She's just the most convenient outlet for an ages-old grudge. She isn't surprised, but she is a little disappointed.
And then there's V. She is different in a way that's borderline shocking. Borderline untrustworthy.
Panam's world has always been divided between three camps of people. First and foremost there are the Nomads, her Nomads. Steadfast, dependable, always ready and able to fight for one another. Sure there have been disagreements, some even made down the barrel of a gun. But at the end of the solar cycle Nomads are a known quantity. The Aldecaldos are more than a traveling gang, they're a family, with all the pros and cons that entails.
Then there's the Raffen Shiv. Everything that makes a Nomad a Nomad are the things the dog-soldiers spit on. Raffens are as predictable as an Aldecaldo, but in the distinctly opposite direction: rape, murder, cannibalism - nothing is considered too far. They are familiar too in their own filthy way.
There's a third camp. The Everyone Else. People like the red-eyed Japanese woman passing her by in the hall, plates of chrome rippling like snakescales up her arms. People like the parking attendant downstairs, an old man with blue plastic instead of a face, weak parts replaced and then replaced again so he can keep on pasting holo-stamped tickets on cracked windshields year after year after year. People like the normal-looking brunette in the dark booty shorts and darker visor-goggles who always just happens to be a few steps behind every time Panam glances over her shoulder.
She doesn't know how to categorize these people, these Everyone Elses. Experience has taught her that they can be every bit as brutal, untrustworthy, and insufferable as the Shivs. Rogue springs to mind, and even just the thought of that old crow in her subterranean roost is enough to put a scowl across her features.
But then there's V. A little too stuck-up. A little too sure of herself. A little too convinced she has all the answers when she's clearly as clueless as anyone else on these streets. But for all that, there's a tenderness to her eyes that is remarkable only because of its absence everywhere else.
V is intriguing. V is dangerous. V is an unknown quantity adrift in an obscene ocean of suspicions. But for the time being, V is offering to settle their biz and throw in some new pieces for the ever-evolving puzzle that is Panam's ride. She'd have to be an idiot to refuse.
She stops at the door to V's apartment. At least, she thinks it's the door. It's the same as a hundred other she's passed on the way here. The only thing that makes this one stand out is the little flickering holographic number, 0716, above the doorway. She raps her knuckles against the door and glares at the booty-shorts woman who's tailed her since the lobby. If booty-shorts woman has any response, it can't be seen through that midnight-dark visor. She passes by and Panam taps her foot with a huff.
She knocks again, and this time there's a hoarse, "It's open," from the other side.
Panam frowns at the suppressed distress in that voice. It's V, unmistakably, but she can't shake the feeling something's wrong. She keys open the door and creeps into the spacious dwelling within. Her progress is halted almost immediately by the sudden sound of vomiting.
"V?" she inquires.
"One sec," comes the strangled response, followed by more vomiting.
Panam drifts further inside, looking to the left and the adjoining bathroom. A toilet flushes and V falls out from a curtain of hanging beads, sprawling onto her back with a muttered curse. She looks like she just rolled out of bed - literally. Her red hair is a wet, messy, post-shower tangle. She's dressed in a simple gray crop top and loose black sweatpants, leaving her barefoot and very burned out.
She's seen better days. That taxi she mentioned must have done a number on her. The Nomad hazards a step closer. "You okay?"
A groan. "Never better."
"Fun night?"
V scoffs, then winces and rubs at the stitched-up gash on her forehead. "I wish. Nah, just a bug I picked up. Whole brain on fire kinda deal." She waves a hand from her position on the floor. "Long story."
"You seem to be full of those."
V laughs an exhausted laugh. Her chest rises and falls with short, pained breaths. "Yeah, well..."
"Anything I can do?"
"You could give me a hand up."
That seems simple enough. Panam offers an outstretched hand, which the redhead gratefully accepts with a snarl of exertion. V staggers to her feet and over to the bathroom sink. Her shaking fingers snatch up a blue-toned bottle and shake free a dark pill, which she dry-downs with a grimace. Panam risks a glance past the bead curtain and glimpses the toilet splattered with what looks like blood.
She frowns and looks back to V. "You sure you're all right?"
"Well..." V tilts her head back and forth, meeting her visitor's gaze in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. "All right would be an overstatement. Big one. But I'm managing. You know how it is."
She shoots her a grin that would be reassuring if not for the subtle sting of pain behind her eyes - well the one eye that isn't swollen shut anyway. But she jerks her head and cheerfully says, "What do you say we stop hanging out in my bathroom, huh? Not exactly the best place for a hostess to entertain guests, you know."
She leads Panam back out to the main room: a cozy enough space despite the mess. Empty bottles and old food containers litter most available surface area, stacked atop what look like sappy romance serials and earmarked fashion screamsheets. A tiny portable radio belts out the static-buzzed beats of some angry-sounding rockerboy.
"Sorry about the mess." V scoops the worst of the trash off the coffee table and dumps it onto another. "I, ah, haven't really been staying in much. Too much downtime is bad for me, so I'm not here often for spring cleaning. Can I get you a drink?"
"Beer if you got it," Panam settles onto the nearest sofa. She continues her perusal of the apartment, eyes darting from one oddity to the next. The solo has so much... stuff. Life on the road doesn't leave a Nomad time to collect anything but scars and sunburns. Now that she thinks of it, everything she owns can be crammed into the backseat of her rig in case of a speedy bug-out.
But V has rows of books, a chaotic jumble of clothes in at least five different styles, boxing and fitness gear - just to name the few things Panam can recognize. Even the dishes seem too many. She has four bowls. Who the hell needs four bowls?
Panam eventually seizes on an odd yellow shape near the front door and asks, "Is that a... surfboard?"
"Yeah." V glances at it and smiles. "Used to be a sucker for boarding when I was a teenager."
"Used to? What changed?"
"Had an accident." V shrugs.
"What happened?"
"Was going for a stoked tube ride. When the wave comes down over you and you ride the barrel back out?" She demonstrates with her hands. "'Cept the wave hit me square and dragged me under. Board hit me in the ribs here-"
She lifts her top and gestures to a faded scar along her ribs, opposite her expansive serpent tattoo. "Sliced me open and knocked the wind out of me. Ankle got tangled in the leash. All around bad time."
"Jesus."
"Normally they teach you to conserve your oxygen during a hold-out until you float back up. Usually only about twelve, thirteen seconds or so. But the board had knocked my lungs dry and by the time I was up, the next wave was comin' down. Hit me again, took me down again. Leg still caught, couldn't get free. Pretty much drowned. They had to send a drone to fish me out of the water, and another to pump the ocean outta my lungs."
She shrugs again. "Haven't been the biggest fan of water sports since then."
"Can't say I blame you." Panam was a creature of the desert. Hell, she'd never even seen the ocean before Saul dragged them out to California. She couldn't imagine the terror of being pulled down like that, soaked and choking and terrified the entire while.
Well, she could imagine a bit. The sensation didn't seem too far from the one she felt here in the depths of the city. The same oppressive weight squeezing in around her. The same roaring in her ears. The same terrified gut reaction that this was a place where she was never meant to linger long.
"Anyway." V's voice knocks her from her brooding. "Ancient history now. I try to keep my boots on dry land these days, but I kept the board for sentimental reasons. Still want that beer?"
The merc heads for the battered vending machine set up next to the sleeping cradle - apparently standard issue for all Megabuilding apartments, linked to a building-wide dispensary network. Even from her perch on the couch, Panam can pick out the various services offered: food, drink, meds, and sex-on-demand, among others. There is a numbness to the presentation of it all, a crass love letter to mindless consumption and nothing deeper. Just push a button and forget the rest.
The entire contraption buzzes like a fire alarm and the display screens flare red at the first touch of human input - at least until V punches a fist into the side. From the look of the marks and dents near her fist, this isn't the first time she's had to resort to classic human persuasion to get what she wants from the machine. Two shrink-wrapped plastic bottles clatter into the dump chute with a rattle.
V tears the wrapping and returns with a bottle in each hand, offering one to her guest before throwing herself onto the couch across from her. She cracks the bottlecap off the edge of the coffee table and raises the beer in a toast.
"Tu salud, compañera," she quips. She chugs half the bottle in one go.
"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," Panam says with a small smile, downing a sizable portion herself. It's largely tasteless outside the bitter afterwash, probably chemically sterilized and pumped full of preservatives, but it's chill and it burns going down. She's had worse, but she's easily had better.
"I really don't," the merc admits. "Picked up bits and pieces from a choom of mine. He's... not in the picture anymore. Something for me to remember him by."
There's that pained smile again, flashing for but a moment before she changes the subject. She drains the rest of her beer, stifles a cough, and sets the bottle on the table. "So. Those parts I promised."
"You really didn't have to-" Panam begins. But V hops to her feet anyway without waiting for her to finish.
"I get to decide when I treat my friends," the merc says. There's a smile - a real smile - on her face. She pads past the couch.
"Oh? We're friends now?"
"I assumed," V shoots back with a sneaky smile and a wink. "I mean we did sleep together."
Panam laughs, throwing her head back with a sharp, "Ha! In your dreams, big shot. Separate beds don't count."
"You're no fun."
"So I've been told." Panam knocks back the last of her beer and sets it on the table as well.
"Truth?" V keys open a mirrored door and disappears into a small offshoot room. "I got you shot. Not to mention the clusterfuck that came after. Figured I owe you more than a couple of friendly words and a shitty beer."
"V, I told you-"
"I know, I know." Something clatters from inside the room. "Not my fault, water under the bridge, blah blah blah. I get it, you don't blame me. But I blame me."
Panam has to give her that one. Her own stance on the matter isn't too different. "Fair enough."
V reappears, doing a terrible job concealing a bundle behind her back. Panam narrows her eyes, but it's wrapped tight in old and stained screamsheet pages. She watches V with a curious, suspicious half-smile. The merc sets the gift on the coffee table and returns to her seat.
"Don't leave me in suspense," she says, propping herself up on an elbow and gesturing at the package with a flourish.
Panam settles the package in her lap. It's heavy and metallic in her hands. Peeling back one of the sheets reveals plain grey metal. More ripping plasti-paper exposes more details: it's a mechanical piece, a mod for her ride about the size of a basketball. It's round, shaped roughly like a snail shell, and sports a rotary fan in the center.
"It's..." Panam looks up at V with wide eyes. "It's a turbocharger."
"I should hope so," the merc replies with a glint in her gaze. "If it ain't, I have to go back and beat the shit outta my street dealer."
"V, this is..." She can't find the words. "The 'charger in my rig has been busted for ages now. Took a bullet during a smuggling run-" She stops short and narrows her eyes at the woman across from her. "How did you know?"
"I asked around." V shrugs. "If you hadn't already noticed, I like to talk. Like, a lot."
"But... these things cost like an arm and a leg!"
"If you go through official channels, yeah. Lucky for you, you're in the good books with a merc who keeps her ear to the street. And one who happens to appreciate good wheels almost as much as you do."
Panam sits in silence for few moments, until the big question starts nagging at her once again. She frowns up at V, hesitant to ask but in need of an answer.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Huh?"
"I-I mean why are you being so... kind? I'm a Nomad. You're a street samurai. Those... haven't historically meshed. Sometimes it feels like I can't take two steps in this city without someone yelling at me to get out. But you don't seem to care and I don't get that."
"Panam." V fixes her with an amused smirk. "You really think I'm the kind of person who gives a shit about history?"
"I guess-"
V sits up and claps her palms against her knees. "I have nothing against the Nomads. And I'm sure as shit not gonna judge you for deciding to search for a better life on the road. Hell, once upon a time I was no different." She laughs. "You know, the first time me and my best choom met, he put a loaded gun to my head? By morning, we were joking over breakfast at his mom's house. I like to think I have a good taste for people."
Against her better judgment, Panam smiles. "You are an odd one, V."
The merc nods. "No argument from me there. But promise me one thing?"
"What?"
"When you get that turbocharger set up and we both have a minute to stop almost dying, we're going racing. And hopefully this time I won't get you shot."
Panam grins. "You've got yourself a deal."
"Lead me through the guiding lights, through the signals in the darkness. Lead me through the northern stars, away from the madness."
- Fury Weekend, Signals
Author's Note: While I ultimately pursued a romance with Judy, I always felt there was a fantastic spark of chemistry between V and Panam. More on that later.
But even though a romance path was locked off to fem-V players, I actually found myself equally appreciating the friendship that developed between the two. In my playthrough, V fell in love with Judy but it was always Panam who was her best friend. Based on conversations I've had with others, I'm not the only one who feels this way.
This is my take on the first step along the way to that friendship.